


Vulnerable

by VanishingPoint



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Coworkers to lovers, First Time (sort of), Helmet rules, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanishingPoint/pseuds/VanishingPoint
Summary: “Can you take your helmets off with each other?”“With other mandalorians?” Rifleman said. “No.”“Not ever?”“No one can see our faces.”“So it’s just the seeing that’s the problem?” Kaz asked. He sat forward, little more than a shifting silhouette.“That’s what they tell me,” Rifleman said. Theology was never his strong suit. People told him what rules to follow and he followed them.-----The Mandalorian, still fairly new to the Guild, teams up with another Guild member. Everything goes terribly wrong, of course.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/OC, The mandalorian/other mandalorians (past)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 184





	Vulnerable

It had been a long time since anyone had used his name. He’d had one, once—the one his parents had give him, before he was taken in by his tribe. Sometimes he wondered if he even remembered it correctly, or if the span of years that separated him from his parents had blurred their name for him beyond recognition. He never spoke it, not even when he was unhelmeted and alone. He was afraid to say it aloud and find that he felt no connection to it, that it would feel like the name of a stranger.

To most people, he was just The Mandalorian, or like Greef Karga liked to fondly call him—Mando. When Greef started that, many of the other bounty hunters had taken to it as well. He wasn’t fond of the nickname, but he was still new to the Guild, and expressing that dislike felt like a weakness, so he answered to it. Sometimes he wondered with some bemusement if they actually thought that was his name.

Rifleman was a name that the Armorer called him sometimes. He liked that one, perhaps because it was she who’d given it to him. A name holds a lot more meaning when you respect the person saying it. And it was better than Heavy Infantry, anyway. But people tended to give him odd looks when he introduced himself that way. Apparently _Rifleman_ suggested violence, which wasn’t a good thing to suggest in polite company. He personally found that odd—it didn’t suggest violence. It was just the name of his profession. Which happened to be a violent one.

He stepped into the inn, rainwater dripping from his armor and cape, mood already foul. The kubaz behind the counter was glued to some kind of show on their screen and didn’t so much as look up at the hiss of the doors.

“ _Name?_ ” they clicked.

“No name,” Rifleman said. “One room.”

The kubaz looked up properly, gave a fairly dramatic double-take, and then chattered something that was too quick for him to make out before whistling, “ _Of course, Mandalorian._ ”

Rifleman nodded, and then looked around the tavern. There was someone he was supposed to meet here, someone in the Guild that Greef said would help him out with the particulars of this bounty. Greef hadn’t been able to give a name, but said that the contact would know to look for a Mandalorian. Rifleman didn’t much like that either, but he was trying to get into the Guild’s good graces. He was hard up for credits and his ship needed repairs, and neither of those things would be fixed until he started getting some of the more high-profile bounties. He was comitted to playing nice, for now.

This planet certainly wasn’t turning out to be one of his favorites. It rained constantly, seemed to be at least 90% mud, and he’d read that sometimes that rain—and by extension the mud—would sometimes turn to a caustic acid during bad weather conditions. And supposedly while that acid _probably_ wouldn’t kill you if you get too much on you, he’d read that it hurt like hell, would drive you temporarily blind, and could scar if left on the skin for too long. He wasn’t too concerned about it. His armor was impermeable to most things. But he still didn’t much like the idea.

The kubaz chattered a little more, took his credits, then handed him the card for his room and, bizarrely, a large, fluffy towel.

“ _Complimentary_ ,” the kubaz whistled.

Rifleman took it. “Thanks.”

The inn’s lobby doubled as a bar, and there were several people sitting around in heavy cloaks, drinking and looking vaguely waterlogged. Rifleman sat at one of the tables. The server approached him in a dull red uniform. He waved her off and consulted back through the details of the plan. He would meet with his Guild contact, they would infiltrate the fortress of a nearby warlord and drag said warlord back to his former planet. The pay was supposed to be good. It had better be. Rain and mud made removing and cleaning his armor twice the work.

As he considered that, a dull red uniform entered his vision again. He looked up, ready to let the server know that yes, really, he did just want to sit here and drink nothing, but the uniform sat down at the table across from him and the man in the uniform clasped his hands in front of him on the table.

“You the mandalorian?” the man said in heavily accented Basic. He was attractive. That was the first thing Rifleman noticed about him, and that was something the Rifleman as a rule didn’t notice about people. It was better not to notice those things. They just made him stupid.

When Rifleman just looked at him, the man continued, “I mean I can see that you are _a_ mandalorian, but are you the man I’m supposed to meet with?”

Rifleman nodded. He disliked this man already, with his distracting face and his friendly voice and ingratiating smile.

The smile widened. “Alright. I’m Kaz Rodin.” He held out a hand. Rifleman didn’t take it. That ingratiating grin dropped. Rifleman immediately liked him a little better. “Alright,” Kaz said. He withdrew his hand and straightened his uniform. “We don’t have to be friends. It’s not like I haven’t been working this job for days already, literally working as a damn barman to track down our mark.”

“Nobody told you to do that,” Rifleman said.

“Yeah, well I’m thorough,” Kaz said. He looked to be around Rifleman’s age, maybe younger, with tan skin and dark eyes and curly hair that had obviously taken a liking to the humidity, considering its volume. “Anyway,” he said, and ran a distracted hand through said hair. “You got a name?”

“Call me what you like.”

“Alright, how about Mando?” Kaz said.

Even parsecs away, that nickname still found him somehow. Rifleman shrugged.

“Fabulous,” Kaz said. He stood. “Dawn tomorrow, then.”

He left, and then a few minutes later Rifleman stood as well, grabbed his room card and the fluffy towel and made his way up toward bed.

The room was small, and the overhead lights were a harsh, pale blue that made the space feel colder than it was. But at least it was clean and dry. There was a sink and toilet in one corner. No tub or even a sonic shower, but that was fine. He was used to going without.

Staying well away from the bed, he stripped out of his armor and hung the padding and underclothes beneath a heating vent to hopefully dry them a bit. He appreciated the towel more than he thought he would.

At least this room felt secure enough. It had no windows, and had a thick door with a sturdy lock. He often slept in the helmet, when he could find no privacy to remove it, or when that privacy felt suspect, but that didn't mean he liked to. It was hardly comfortable, and he wanted nothing more than to press his face into a pillow and get the smell of mud out of his nose.

At the sink, he removed his helmet to clean his face and teeth. He avoided looking at the mirror, keeping his eyes instead on his hands, and then on his hair as he pulled it free of its pleating so that it could dry as well. It was getting long, past his shoulders. Perhaps, he thought, sometime soon he should find some scissors to cut it short.

#

The next day’s plans didn’t make it very far. He and Kaz met at dawn. They infiltrated the fortress. They found the warlord. They did not succeed in dragging said warlord off-planet.

When the last of the muscle spasms from the stun batons had worn off and he could finally think straight again, Rifleman found himself cuffed in one of the warlord’s rooms. He was on his knees. Automatically, he tried to stand, but someone gripped his shoulder from behind and shoved him back down.

Beside him, Kaz sat with his arms cuffed behind his back. Rifleman's hands were cuffed in front of him. Most likely his armor was so bulky that they hadn’t been able to get his shoulders to bend that way. He sure as hell had trouble with it, sometimes. They hadn’t removed his helmet thankfully, but his blaster and rifle were across the room, leaning against the wall beside Kaz’s blasters. Kaz looked no worse for wear, at least.

There were guards in the room. They looked angry, and Rifleman remembered that he’d zapped at least a couple of their comrades out of existence before they hit him with the stunner. He felt good about that. He always figured that when he died, he’d ideally leave an impression on whoever or whatever was doing the killing.

There was a general shuffle near the door to the room. Rifleman looked at Kaz, who glanced at him and then looked ahead again.

Rifleman frowned. One significant drawback of the helmet was that non-mandalorians were frankly terrible at reading body language. With his own people, Rifleman could easily work through their body language—people who never show their faces have to gain and fine-tune that skill. But Kaz, who’d just subtly winked to show that he felt he had some handle on the situation, seemed to have no idea that Rifleman had understood and was perfectly willing to let him take the lead. Instead, he just looked over the helmet as if it might tell him something useful, then seemed to give up and looked away.

The guards all stood up straight, and then the warlord himself walked into the room. He wasn’t much to look at—some kind of humanoid that appeared more or less human, minus the odd yellow eyes.

Those eyes looked between Rifleman and Kaz. “Assassins,” he said.

“Bounty hunters, actually,” Kaz said, and the warlord narrowed his eyes at him. If Kaz noticed it, it didn’t show. “Let me assure you, this was nothing personal. I have no heart in this matter, do you?” He gestured at Rifleman, who shrugged and shook his head a little. Kaz’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally—perhaps he mistook ambivalence for disinterest--and then he looked back to the warlord and said, “See. I promise you, it’s nothing personal for him either.”

“So what if it’s not personal?” the warlord said.

“Perhaps,” Kaz said smoothly, “we can get the bounty lifted from your head, so that you never have to concern yourself with more break-ins like these.”

“Can you truly do that?” the warlord asked.

“The right money in the right hands can move planets,” Kaz said. “Let's see how we can help each other.”

The warlord stroked his beard, obviously thinking it over. “Perhaps,” he said. He looked at Rifleman, who wasn’t sure quite what was expected of him, and so did nothing. “What do you say?”

“I… say the same,” Rifleman said.

The warlord considered him, then sat back and said, “Come, I cannot make deals with a man in a mask.” He gestured at Rifleman. “Let me look on your face.”

“Hold on,” Kaz said at the same moment that Rifleman said, “I don’t remove the helmet. It is part of my religion.” Let them take it from him when he was dead. Not a moment before.

The warlord, obviously unaccustomed to being denied, snapped his fingers at him, and Rifleman felt something touch his helmet and it began to lift.

He drove his head back. His helmet connected with something soft and the invasive touch disappeared, accompanied by a grunt. “Don’t touch me,” Rifleman snarled, standing. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry.

He could hear Kaz beside him, saying something quick and appeasing, but Rifleman couldn’t hear it past the pulsing in his ears. The guards around them were reaching for their guns, the warlord was shouting, and so Rifleman stepped in front of Kaz and flicked the switch on his arm and the room went up in flames.

The fight was over very quickly. Kaz pushed past him to dart through the flames and the re-emerged with their blasters in hand. He passed Rifleman’s weapons to him without saying anything, his face stony.

They fled the building, Kaz leading the way through the labyrinthine hallways, meeting little resistance until they were out, back in the rain. Their speeder had been disabled, and so they had to walk.

It wasn’t until they were a good hour out from the fortress that Kaz finally broke the silence between them.

“Well, that was stupid,” he said.

Rifleman didn’t respond.

“He was considering working with us.” Kaz glanced up at him. “You realize we could have avoided that fight.”

“I couldn’t,” Rifleman said.

Kaz looked at him for another moment, then nodded and looked away. They continued their soggy march.

They soon came on one of the traveler’s shelters that ran along the common routes, for anyone caught in a caustic rainstorm. The rain wasn’t currently acidic, but they were both drenched, and Rifleman was growing tired of the constant drum of rain against his helmet.

Once they were inside, Rifleman punched buttons on the wall until that same, cold blue light filled the space. The interior was small, little more than enough room for a couple of people to stand shoulder to shoulder. There was a water hose in the corner and a drain in the floor and a narrow bench lined one wall.

“You’re injured,” Kaz said.

“No, I’m not,” Rifleman said. He looked down, following Kaz’s gaze. There was a bit of his skin showing through a rip in his suit, just above the knee. A jagged tear in the skin oozed dark blood. “Oh,” he said. “I suppose I am.”

“Sit down,” Kaz said. Something in his tone brooked no argument, and so Rifleman sat.

“You a human?” Kaz asked.

“I’m a mandalorian,” Rifleman said, and Kaz rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know,” he said, and crouched in front of Rifleman. “But physiologically. Iron-based blood? I can’t tell if it’s red in this light.” As he talked, his hands were digging into one of his pockets.

“Yes,” Rifleman said. “Are you a medic?”

“Good,” Kaz said, and then he had his head down next to Rifleman’s knee to inspect the wound more closely. “And no, I’m not.” He put a hand on the thigh guard on Rifleman’s armor, pulling it to the side to stretch the fabric away from the wound.

Rifleman was intensely aware of the touch and the proximity. How odd that it should be so noticeable, even with both of their sets of armor separating them. Perhaps it was because people generally didn’t get this close to him. He considered trying to push him away, but found he didn’t really care to. He decided to sit still.

“Alright, this might sting a bit,” Kaz said.

“What will—” Rifleman began, then flinched and swore as something jabbed into the skin directly above the wound. Immediately, the spot began to tingle and burn, and then the burning began to spread rapidly to the rest of him. He swore again and stood and shook out his arms and legs to try and rid himself of the odd sensation, almost like the feeling that comes from lying too long on an arm. Kaz laughed, and if he hadn’t looked so sincerely amused, Rifleman might have accused him of poisoning him.

“What was that?” Rifleman said, when the sensation began to fade and he felt he could speak with some modicum of dignity.

“Blood growth stimulant,” Kaz said, still chuckling. He wiped his eyes. “Almost as good as a transfusion. Here,” he filled a canteen with water from the hose on the wall and held it out. “You’ll need to drink something. Your body’s using a lot of water very quickly.”

Rifleman was already feeling a terrible parched sensation in the back of his throat. He didn’t take the cup. “I don’t—” he said.

Thankfully, Kaz was quick to understand. “Can you—” he said, brow furrowed. “Is it that you can’t take it off at all, or that people just can’t see you with it off?”

Rifleman swallowed. It was a narrow distinction, and one he’d generally done his best to avoid entirely. He couldn't bear even the thought of losing his tribe and way of living, especially on a technicality. But he told himself not to be a coward and said, “No one can look on my face.” It was intended to create the impression of uniformity. The mandalorians might have been a single species at some point in the past, but now, built as they were from orphans, they were a thousand different races. But beneath the helmets, they could be anything, all the same. No single one of them was any more or less a mandalorian than the other.

“And if I turn around?” Kaz said. He jerked a thumb at the opposite corner of the little room.

Rifleman considered it, then shook his head slowly, “I’m sorry, I—”

“Of course,” Kaz said quickly. “I understand. I’ll just real quick—” he gestured toward the door and, when Rifleman didn’t respond, smiled thinly and stepped outside.

Rifleman watched him go, and once the door had clicked shut after him, he took off his helmet and drank so much water that he almost vomited.

After a couple of minutes mastering his stomach, he put his helmet back on and called to Kaz. Soon after that, they were outside and on the move again.

“Do you think it ever stops raining?” Kaz said, as they walked.

“For a few weeks in this planet’s summer,” Rifleman said, remembering the details from the logs he’d read to prepare for the job.

“How long until then?”

Rifleman shrugged. “Several months, at least.”

“Hmm,” Kaz said.

They arrived back at the inn after another couple of hours walking in the downpour. They paused at the door.

“Do you think they sent someone ahead of us?” Kaz said, and it was clear he meant the warlord’s people.

Rifleman mentally berated himself for not having thought of that. If the warlord’s people wanted to send assassins ahead for revenge, they could’ve arrived hours ahead of them by speeder.

He turned on his HUD, and brought up the heat map. It took a moment for him to make sense of the bright reds and purples directly in front of him, but when he did, he shoved Kaz aside.

A moment later the door blasted outward, sending chunks of metal flying. He felt his own feet leave the ground, and then he landed heavily on his back several seconds later, the wind knocked from his lungs.

He heard shouting around him, Kaz’s voice among them. He tried to get up, but found that he couldn’t get his muscles to move. For a moment, he struggled. Then, he remembered the stunning tech that people on this planet seemed to favor. He relaxed. Nothing to do but wait until the paralysis faded. If Kaz lost the fight, someone would probably come to kill him in a minute or two, but until then he just watched the rain patter against his faceplate.

After longer than he would have liked, he heard heavy footsteps approaching. He couldn’t see who it was. They stopped at his feet, and he felt the odd sensation of someone patting at his legs, his torso, his arms, briefly tangling with the clasp where his glove attached to his wrist, then dropping his arm again. Kaz’s face appeared above his faceplate, blocking the rain for a moment. Kaz’s jaw was set. There was a cut on his forehead. “You alive?” he said.

When Rifleman failed to get a response out, Kaz’s eyes darted over him. After a brief pause, Kaz said, “Sorry,” then pulled off one of his gloves and thrust his hand under the helmet.

For the space of a heartbeat, Rifleman panicked, but Kaz’s hand didn’t lift the helmet. Instead, they just peeled down the high collar of Rifleman’s undershirt and pressed icy fingers against his neck. After a moment, Kaz’s tense expression loosened with relief. He slipped his hand free and patted the center of Rifleman’s chest plate. “Sorry,” he said again.

Rifleman managed a grunt in response. He could feel his muscles starting to return to him, but he was worse than useless as Kaz put a shoulder in his gut, lifted him bodily out of the mud, and carried him away from the lights of the inn.

After a while of walking, Rifleman managed to get his voice to work. “Ship?” he managed.

Kaz set him down. Rifleman was relieved to find his legs sturdy beneath him.

“You in one piece?” Kaz said.

Rifleman nodded. Even with only a couple of his pieces being made of the beskar steel, mandalorian armor was still the best armor tech in the galaxy. The blast had rattled his teeth but he wasn’t hurt.

“Good,” Kaz said. “Can’t let anything happen to that pretty face.”

“You don’t know what I look like,” Rifleman said.

“I sure don’t,” Kaz said. He reached up to tap Rifleman’s helmet and then pushed past him, knocking their shoulders. “What a shame. Come on.” He started walking again, still moving in the opposite direction of the inn.

Rifleman stared after him a moment, face hot, grateful for the cover of the helmet. He had no idea how other people got through life with their dignity intact when their every emotion was on display at all times.

He gave himself a mental shake. “We need a ship,” he said, jerking a thumb back toward the inn, where his own jumper was most likely still parked on the launchpad.

“I’d rather not get blown up, thank you,” Kaz said. “I’ve got one hidden out, about a half day’s walk this way.”

“Did you expect this to happen?” Rifleman asked.

“No.” Kaz pushed his hair out of his face. “But similar things have happened before. Can’t be too careful.”

Rifleman liked that logic. He made a mental note to consider that for future missions. “Alright,” he said. “I’m following you.”

They walked. The rain fell harder. What little light there was in the sky began to fade as the sun sank below the horizon.

It was around then that the atmospheric alarm in the helmet began to chirp. Rifleman, who had his helmet light on and had largely been watching his feet as he walked, looked up.

Kaz looked up as well. “What’s wrong?” he said. Rifleman just pointed at the sky. Kaz’s face fell. “Ah.” He ran a hand over his wet face and laughed. “Well I’m fucked.”

“Come on,” Rifleman said. He could see one of the traveler’s shacks in the distance, the shape of it showing up in his helmet’s display. He grabbed Kaz’s arm and pulled him into a run.

They almost made it. Just a few steps from the door, Kaz gasped and dropped, hands clutching at his face. The rain hadn’t gotten through Rifleman’s suit. He keyed the door open, grabbed the front of Kaz’s armor and hauled him in. He turned the water on and shoved Kaz beneath the spray. Kaz sputtered insensibly, teeth gritted, and began stripping his armor. It must have gotten down his collar. Rifleman helped pull it from his shoulders, then centered the hose back over him.

“Did you get it in your eyes?” Rifleman asked. Kaz sputtered and swore at him, hands against his face even as he sat beneath the water. Rifleman didn’t know much about the contaminants on this planet, admittedly, but he’d worked in an armorer’s shop when he was younger, and he’d learned all about the kinds of steps to take around dangerous substances. He’d seen one of the non-mandalorian merchants get caught in the splash back from etching acid, and they’d looked about like Kaz did right then. People didn’t think straight in those kinds of situations.

“We have to flush them out,” Rifleman said, crouching beside Kaz and trying to pull his hands from his face. Kaz didn’t appear to hear him, and so Rifleman pulled the hose over, fixing it in place above them both, then pinned both of Kaz's arms to his sides and looped an arm around his neck and shoved his face under the spray. Kaz fought him, but after a few seconds under the water, he stopped struggling and held still.

After another minute to be safe, Rifleman let go of Kaz’s arms, patted his shoulder, and stood. He took the hose and used it to spray down his own armor, just in case, then the rest of the room, and then Kaz again, leaving it locked in place above him.

Finally, Kaz reached up, eyes still shut, and fumbled to turn off the hose. The water swirled around him and down the drain. He looked fairly pathetic, hunched on the floor in a puddle of water in his short-sleeved undershirt.

"Thanks," Kaz rasped.

"Don't mention it," Rifleman said.

"Already did." Kaz slowly shifted until he was on his knees. "That's some damn good armor."

“Mine?” Rifleman said.

“Yes, yours,” Kaz said. “That didn’t touch you, did it?”

It hadn’t. It was very good armor, against more than just guns and clubs. Rifleman didn’t want to seem overly proud, so he said nothing.

Kaz tilted his head back, squinted his eyes open with obvious discomfort, then closed them again. "Are the lights on?" he said.

"Yes," Rifleman said.

Kaz grimaced. “Can’t see shit.”

“Does it still hurt?” Rifleman asked.

“Not really,” Kaz said. “It's not supposed to be permanent, right?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Rifleman said. He’d read the notes about the rains. They were painful, but likely wouldn’t result in permanent damage as long as the contaminant was flushed quickly enough. The misery didn’t lift from Kaz’s expression. Rifleman weighed the situation, worried he may be overstepping his bounds, then said, “Want me to take a look?”

“Are you a medic?” Kaz asked.

“I am, in fact,” he said, and he could tell from the dubious set of Kaz’s mouth that it sounded like sarcasm. He went ahead and let him wonder, though it was true—he was a medic of sorts. All mandalorians were trained in medicine, particularly for their own biology. They most often tended to their own wounds, after all. It was fairly lucky, in fact, that he and Kaz were both apparently part of the same species. That was the only kind of medicine Rifleman knew.

“Alright then,” Kaz said, and held his hand out. Rifleman took it and pulled him to his feet, then directed him by the shoulders to sit on one of the benches. Kaz sat with his eyes shut, but angled his face up for Rifleman to see.

Rifleman hesitated. The trust felt odd. He had never tended to anyone else before, and he briefly regretted offering. Somehow, he sensed that the kind of suck-it-up-you’ll-be-fine rhetoric wasn’t considered a real form of treatment outside of mandalorian circles.

Outside, the storm had whipped up to a howl. Rain pelted against the metal roof of the building, loud enough to almost rival blaster fire. It made the small space feel even smaller. Safer, somehow.

Rifleman pulled out his healing kit and sat on the bench across from Kaz, their knees bumping in the narrow space. When he reached out to touch Kaz’s face, Kaz flinched a little at his touch, and Rifleman realized he still had his gloves on, rough and worn and muddy as they were. He pulled them off and muttered an apology before returning to the examination with his bare fingers.

It was odd, Rifleman thought as he flicked on his headlamp and leaned in closer to examine the puffy red skin around Kaz’s eyes. He’d rarely been so close to another person’s face—or at least rarely outside of violence. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched another person’s skin with his own. It felt strangely unreal under his fingertips—too soft, too delicate. The stubble of Kaz’s short-cut beard scratched against his callouses, and even over the din of the rain, the sandpaper rasp of it felt aggressively loud.

“Can you open your eyes?” Rifleman asked. Kaz grimaced for a second, and then he shook his head. Rifleman reached out and pulled gently on one of the upper lids, exposing part of an eye that was red and alarmingly bloodshot. But the pupils constricted normally beneath the bright light, and the dark brown of the irises looked undamaged. Kaz hissed but didn’t complain.

“Can you see anything at all?”

“Nope.”

Rifleman prodded at the skin at the inner corner gently, satisfied to see none of the bubbling or pus that the notes had described in cases of permanent damage.

“I think you’ll be alright,” Rifleman said and sat back. “Stuff I read said the blindness shouldn’t last more than a day.” He pulled his hand away. It wanted to linger, but he didn’t let it. Immediately, he missed the contact.

“That’s good,” Kaz said. He pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. Perhaps the pressure helped. “Guess I’ll have to sleep here,” he said. “Even without the rain, I won't get far right now.”

“That’s alright,” Rifleman said. He’d slept in worse places, in far worse company. “We’ll check on your eyes in a while.”

Kaz tilted his head. “You don’t have to stick around,” he said. “Warlord’s dead. We’re not getting paid.”

Rifleman, who was beginning to remove his rifle and blaster, paused. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Rifleman said.

Kaz nodded, the relief plain on his face. Rifleman watched him, fascinated. To think people could let their emotions live so openly on their faces. He wondered what that felt like. He wondered if that vulnerability was something a person could really ever get accustomed to.

They sat for a while, the storm drumming away outside. Kaz stretched out on his bench, lying down and pillowing his head on his arm. Rifleman leaned back and watched the ceiling. He wished he could take his helmet off, just for a moment. The padded interior was wet, and his hair felt hot and humid and soggy.

With a soft, humming buzz, the blue lights recessed in the ceiling dimmed. On a timer, likely, to save the generator. It was dark enough now that Rifleman could barely make Kaz out from just a few feet away.

Abruptly, Kaz sat up again. Their knees knocked together, and they both shifted a little to make space for each other.

“Hey, Mando,” Kaz said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Don’t call me that,” Rifleman said, surprising both of them. He hadn’t meant to say it.

“Sure,” Kaz said. “What do you want me to call you?”

“I—” Rifleman winced. “I don’t know. Just not that.”

“Whatever you want, Handsome,” Kaz said.

“You don’t know what I look like,” Rifleman said, aware he was echoing their earlier conversation.

“My loss,” Kaz said. "Do you mind?"

Rifleman opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t _mind_ it. He just didn’t know what to do with it. Too playful for flattery, too sincere for mockery.

Kaz sat forward and grinned, apparently terribly pleased with himself, and with that bit of context, Rifleman was finally able to recognize Kaz’s tone for what it was. He knew what flirting was, but he’d never had someone do it at him before. “Great," Kaz said. "So, Handsome. Can I ask you a question?”

Rifleman shifted, feeling very exposed, even with his armor and and the low light and Kaz’s eyes swollen shut. “What do you want to know?”

“Can you take your helmets off with each other?”

“With other mandalorians?” Rifleman said. “No.”

“Not ever?”

“No one can see our faces.”

“So it’s just the seeing that’s the problem?” Kaz asked. He sat forward, little more than a shifting silhouette.

“That’s what they tell me,” Rifleman said. Theology was never his strong suit. People told him what rules to follow and he followed them.

“And if you’re with someone who can’t see?” Kaz said. That said, Kaz reached out, hand trailing along his own leg until it jumped the narrow space between them and landed lightly on Rifleman’s knee. “It might be alright to take your helmet off then, right?”

“It might be,” Rifleman said. He held very still, turning the concept over and over, looking for the flaw in it and finding only that it seemed dangerously appealing. Kaz wasn’t even touching him. His fingers were on the bit of armor paneling on his thigh, but Rifleman swore he could almost feel the heat of them.

“Just saying,” Kaz said, after a moment. He pulled his hand away, but didn’t go far, just letting it rest at the edge of his own knee. “Offer’s there.” He sounded casual, offhand, but Rifleman was quite good at reading body language, and there was a self consciousness in the set of his shoulders.

“I don’t—” Rifleman began, unsure what he was going to say.

Kaz, likely mistaking the nervous words as rejection, said, “My apologies,” and started to sit up and back. Rifleman, as if pulled by a magnet, leaned forward to follow him. He let his hand hover for a moment, then summoned his courage and lowered it gently until his fingers brushed the back of Kaz’s hand.

Kaz breathed in sharply at the touch, then sat forward again. “Interested?” he said.

“Thinking about it,” Rifleman said. He thought maybe he was getting this flirting thing right because he could see Kaz’s teeth flashing in a grin.

“What else are we going to do all night?” Kaz said.

“I’ve never—” Rifleman began. His face managed to get even hotter.

“Never?” Kaz said. He shifted even closer into Rifleman’s space.

“Well I have,” Rifleman said. Quick encounters, hands shoved beneath armor, nothing removed, nothing risked. “But the helmet.”

“Leave it on then,” Kaz said. “Never tried that, but it sounds like an experience.”

“You don’t mind?” Rifleman said. That changed things. He ran his fingers along the inside of Kaz’s wrist, feeling the trail of goosebumps. He was, by necessity, quite good with his hands.

Kaz shivered. Rifleman watched what he could see of Kaz’s face, feeling like he was getting away with something. It was so much more intimate to touch someone when he could see their face respond to it. He let his hand trail up the inside of Kaz’s arm, marveling at how soft the skin was at the crook of his elbow and inner bicep, and how warm he was to the touch. He paused there at the bicep, where he could feel a pulse thrumming.

“I definitely don’t mind,” Kaz said, his voice tight. Without his sight, his hands were clumsy, uncertain as he reached out, knuckles bumping awkwardly against the chest plate of the armor.

“Let me,” Rifleman said. He took Kaz’s hand again, and realized his own were trembling.

To cover that weakness, he crowded forward onto Kaz’s bench, dropping a knee just in front of the V of Kaz’s legs, encouraged by how Kaz shifted back to make more room for him.

He brought his hands up to cup Kaz’s face. Now that he knew he was allowed to touch, he found it quickly becoming a compulsion, and let his fingers run across Kaz’s cheeks, his eyelids, his lips. When Kaz turned his head and kissed his palm, Rifleman was fascinated by how such a gentle touch could somehow connect to every muscle in his body like a live wire. He touched Kaz’s mouth again, and then ran his fingers down the front of him, the warmth and muscle of Kaz’s chest and belly deliciously present beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt.

When he reached the front of his pants, he pressed down with the heel of his palm. Kaz ground up against him. This part was familiar. He’d done this before after all, just without all of these… additional components. The access to all of this touch, to all of this bare skin, to the play of emotions on the other person’s face. It seemed terribly gratuitous, and yet he found he was already liking it quite a bit.

When Rifleman slipped his hand beneath the fabric, Kaz gasped and groaned. “Ah,” he said, sounding vaguely overwhelmed. His hands gripped at the armored paneling on Rifleman’s arms. When Rifleman’s hand began to move, Kaz let his head drop against Rifleman’s helmet, his forehead pressed to the metal, mouth slack. “This is weird,” he said, even as he pulled himself closer, the muscles in his arms tight, his legs falling open wider, eliminating the space between them until there was barely enough room for Rifleman’s hand to keep moving.

At the next upstroke, Rifleman twisted his fingers a little bit, teasing with his thumb, and Kaz stuttered on a moan—he couldn’t possibly know that his mouth was right beside one of the mic inputs on the helmet, or that the sound would drive a spike driven right in the center of Rifleman’s gut.

Rifleman shoved him back against the wall again and brought his free hand up to the back of Kaz’s head. He twisted his fingers into the hair there, surprised by how Kaz’s hips jerked in reaction. He gave an experimental pull and Kaz groaned through gritted teeth and let his head fall back.

Rifleman wanted to bite that exposed throat. He knew people did that, bit each other, put their mouths on each other. Just the thought of it had his armor feeling painfully tight. He made do with doubling down on the motion of his hand and pushing even closer, his helmet pressed up beneath Kaz’s chin. He knew he needed to be careful, that the hard, sharp edges of his armor could easily damage any part of Kaz’s exposed skin, but when he eased up his pressure a bit, Kaz hooked a leg around him and dragged him close again.

He switched the angle of his grip, changing to short, quick strokes and Kaz jerked and swore. Rifleman could hear the clicking of Kaz’s fingernails against his armor. Kaz said something in a language that Rifleman didn’t know, and then there were fingertips at the base of his helmet, at the back of his neck. They didn’t lift, just hooked beneath and dug into the exposed skin there as Kaz came.

Rifleman stroked him through it, then a little more, chuckling when Kaz huffed and caught at his wrist to stop him.

Kaz sank back against the bench. “That was intense,” he said. He was panting, his other hand still on Rifleman’s neck, the fingertips there a spark that shot all the way down Rifleman’s spine. Kaz trailed into laughter again, his face somewhere near the armor’s chest plate. “God, are you guys always this intense about everything?”

“Are we supposed to be anything else?” Rifleman said, his tone joking but genuinely curious. What did Kaz expect from his lovers—disinterest?

Kaz disentangled them a little bit. “Wouldn’t have you any other way,” he said, humor still in his tone. He nudged his face against the helmet, the motion weirdly intimate, affectionate. It felt like Rifleman's heart missed a beat. “So can I get the armor off you, or are we doing this full mandalorian style?”

Before Rifleman could second guess himself, he began to remove his armor. While he did so, Kaz’s fingers continued to rub gently against the back of his neck, and he never would have thought that such a small touch could drive him to such distraction. He was clumsy as he removed his armor, picking it apart faster than he normally would have, skipping proper order and procedure and instead just undoing the main clasps and standing to step out of the entire thing. Beneath, he wore only light, thin underclothes.

Kaz remained sitting, his hand still hovering in the air in front of him, head tilted, apparently listening to the resounding metal thunks of the armor against the metal floor.

Tentatively, anxious and shy at the feeling of exposure, Rifleman took Kaz's hand. When Kaz stood, he was taller than Rifleman, just by a bit, and when he stepped forward, his free hand coming to rest on Rifleman’s hip, Rifleman felt himself tilting his head up. Kaz pressed his forehead to the front of the helmet, and Rifleman felt a terrible longing at having his face so close, just a finger’s width of space between their lips.

Kaz reached down, and Rifleman thought he would take him in his hand then, but Kaz just splayed his hand against Rifleman’s lower abdomen. “You good?” Kaz said.

“Of course,” Rifleman said, feeling breathless, as if his diaphragm didn’t have the strength to press against Kaz’s fingers. Kaz could probably hear it, even through the helmet’s modulator.

“You mind if I take it slow?”

“Take it however you want,” Rifleman said, to cover the fact that he had no idea what the hell it meant to take it slow.

“Great,” Kaz said, his voice rumbling on that syllable. He closed the distance between them, bringing the fronts of their bodies together, then ducked to nose at the side of Rifleman’s neck, his warm palms smoothing down his sides. He stepped in and slotted their hips together, one thigh pressing between Rifleman’s legs. One hand reached up to roll down the material of Rifleman’s high collar, and then there was the sandpaper rasp of Kaz’s jaw against vulnerable skin.

It was instantly overwhelming. Everywhere that Kaz touched him felt hypersensitive, tight, like it did during a flu, and when teeth brushed his throat, it seemed to tear his voice from him. He gasped, hands fisting in Kaz’s shirt.

“Taking it slow,” Kaz said, sounding smug and unsurprised, his breath hot against Rifleman’s neck, and then he was the one walking Rifleman backwards, pushing him so that his back was against the wall. The cold of the metal was a shocking contrast from the heat of Kaz’s entire front pressed up against him. He could feel Kaz getting hard again, but mostly he was aware of his own painful situation. But Kaz still didn’t touch him there.

Instead, Kaz slipped his hands up, under Rifleman’s shirt and wandered his skin. The callouses of Kaz’s palms brushed his ribs, and Rifleman choked on a laugh, startling them both. “Ticklish,” Kaz murmured, and did it again, this time touching a spot up under Rifleman’s arm, making him gasp and clutch at Kaz’s hand reflexively, stopping it in its tracks. “Sorry,” Kaz said, not sounding sorry at all.

One hand left Rifleman’s stomach, lifting up to rest against the helmet again. The other hand kept tracing the skin of his chest, rolling along collarbones and then coming up to spread against the back of his neck again, and Rifleman shuddered, his spine arching without his permission.

Kaz’s palm was little more than a sense of pressure against his helmet, a space in his vision that blocked what little light there was. It shouldn’t have felt like anything. It didn’t make any sense. But he swore he could almost feel the touch of Kaz’s fingers on his cheek. God forgive him, he wanted the real thing.

“I—hold on,” Rifleman said. Kaz stopped moving, the question clear in his body language. Rifleman reached up, and before he could think too hard about it, pulled his helmet from his head. The cold air against his face was a sharp relief after hours in the damp. He set the helmet down slowly on the bench, atop his cape, his heart beating impossibly faster. He straightened and, again, hesitated.

“Are you alright?” Kaz said. He was very still, perhaps waiting for permission to continue.

“Yes,” Rifleman said, and his voice must be quite different outside the mask, because Kaz breathed in a soft sound of understanding.

Rifleman took is hand and, aware that he was shaking and without any way to cover it now, pulled it up to his own face.

When Kaz’s fingers touched his cheek, they both gasped. Kaz actually jerked his hand back, as if burned, but then groaned and returned with both hands, quickly following with his own lips to capture him in a crushing kiss.

Kissing was exactly as good as people said it was. Better. It was incredible people didn’t just do it all the time, really. Rifleman hauled Kaz against him and kissed back. He had no idea what he was doing, but everything Kaz did with his lips and teeth and tongue made him dizzy, and so he did his best to respond in kind.

Kaz broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard. He brought his hands up into Rifleman’s hair, the fingers briefly distracted with apparent fascination, gauging the length and texture of it and then tightening on a handful of braid and using it like a bridle to turn Rifleman’s head. His breath against an ear sent shivers through Rifleman’s body, and when his tongue followed suit, Kaz had to bend to keep contact as Rifleman lost the last bit of strength in his legs and had to sit.

After that, Kaz’s mouth and hands were everywhere, and Rifleman was entirely captive to him. Initially he tried to keep some handle on his reactions, to master himself enough to reciprocate, but Kaz caught his hands and gently redirected them to just grip his upper arms, and so Rifleman gave himself up to just holding on. He couldn’t control the sounds he was making, and so he stopped trying to do that too. Kaz hummed his approval.

He didn’t understand how such gentle actions could be so affecting, how Kaz could avoid his lower half entirely and still somehow send every other sensation shooting to the core of him. How he could run a hand up under his shirt and pinch a nipple and it would knock the air from his lungs as effectively as a punch to the gut. It hadn’t really occurred to him that there could be more places on a person’s body to touch than just the place between their legs.

When Kaz did touch him there, he nearly came instantly. And when Kaz ducked down and put his mouth on him, he could barely get out a warning before he tipped over the edge, his every muscle spasming with the force of it, Kaz’s hands on his hips likely the only thing keeping him on the bench.

Kaz’s mouth pulled off of him, and then his forehead dropped to his hip. He was breathing hard, and Rifleman realized with another burst of heat that he was stroking himself, crouched right there between Rifleman’s knees. Rifleman ran his fingers through Kaz’s hair, encouraged when Kaz pressed his face against him, his breath hot against Rifleman’s bare belly and thighs, and it was only a couple of breaths before Kaz was coming again with a soft gasp.

Afterward, while they were both struggling to get their breathing back under control, Kaz crawled back up his body and kissed him. Rifleman did his best to kiss back, muscles still twitching, fascinated by the taste of himself on the other man’s tongue.

After a few moments, Kaz sat back and adjusted them both, hands tugging clothing back over skin, perhaps sensing the tense vulnerability that was already creeping back now that Rifleman’s mind was no longer thoroughly distracted. He took Rifleman’s hand up and touched his lips to the back of his fingers. When Rifleman’s breath hitched, Kaz flipped his hand over and kissed his bare palm. It was painfully tender. Rifleman couldn’t bear it. He pulled Kaz up to kiss him more.

After some amount of time, Kaz made a soft sound and pulled away from him. He kept his head angled down and said, “I think my sight’s coming back. I’m starting to see a little bit of light again.”

Rifleman reached over for his helmet and, with a disconcerting mix of relief and disappointment, slipped it back over his head. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it in more ways than one.

“Any time,” Kaz said, and Rifleman knew he probably didn’t mean that literally, but the thought of it latched on and refused to let go. Could they really do this, any time? He’d never been with the same person more than once. It had never really felt like an option.

“Well,” Rifleman said, tamping down that thought. He tested the waters with, “God knows we’ll probably be stuck together for a bit.”

Kaz, whose furrowed brow indicated he was wrestling with conundrums of his own, shifted to a grin and said, “What a pity.”

The rain was still coming down outside. Dawn was still hours away. They both ended up lying down, pressed together on one far-too-narrow bench, Kaz’s front stretched along Rifleman's back.

Rifleman lay awake for a long time, long after Kaz’s soft breaths on the back of his neck slowed and deepened. Those breaths were the only thing in his mind when, finally, Rifleman drifted to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to take place a while before the events of the show, when our Mandalorian was still kind of a newbie.  
> I wrote this after the fourth episode, so forgive me if this doesn't match up with anything that happens in canon. I'm just here for the cuteness and the hot guy in the helmet. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.


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